


you are the only exception

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Past Abuse, Smut, Something Like Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 15:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1862757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He handles her the way he does with his bow. Delicately.</i>
</p><p>Maybe love isn't for children after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are the only exception

**Author's Note:**

> Ok – this might not be very good because of different reasons:
> 
> It feels like it's been forever since writing my last fanfic, so I'm a little rusty. This is more of something to warm up my muse, (which is why it's so short), so I'll be uploading a Charles/Erik piece soon, a bit longer. The other is because I've always thought I'm crap at writing Clint or Natasha, so had been put off by their characters. However, I've tried, but if it's awful, I'm sorry!
> 
> Unbeta'd, but enjoy. ♡

The blood seeps from splintered knuckles—

It hurts, bones brittle and snapped so easily like a fence panel, but it’s nothing she hasn’t had before. Burst vessels in her eye, a broken leg or ribs shaped into a new cage by someone’s boot; most at a younger age, at her most vulnerable and just learning the trade of an assassin, most done by her creator.

She hisses as the bandages press against raw skin, split open by how hard she’d punched her target, and doesn’t look up when she senses Clint hovering at the door. She knows his arms are crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

‘Who pissed you off this time?’

~

He handles her the way he does with his bow. Delicately. 

Too much, unnervingly and almost a tinge of annoyance, as if he’s afraid she’ll break under his touch. She can—could, if she lets him past her mask any further—and if that happens, that’s it. It’s done. Watching her bleed, expose what she’d learnt to hide all these years, opens the worst window. If she pulls him under the grey clouds, not in the sky but what hovers over her day in day out, will be the last of him if the lightning strikes him down. 

It’s what makes her pull away from the light touches, away from the feathery brush along her cheek before that wavering smirk can come too close to her frown. 

The thunder cracks above her and splits against her skull.

~

‘Tasha—’

‘Shut up, Clint.’

She absently wonders why he’s so full of concern, nursing an ice pack to her forehead, when after all, he’s the one who thrives on danger; he has a thirst for it, who jumps off roofs and will pick off a target in broad daylight in the middle of a crowd just because he can. It’s what he does, what he wants. It’s one of the things they have in common.

It’s understandable somewhat. She’d recognised one of the faces behind the Red Room, might have done more damage than intended, but she’d been blinded by all the red in her ledger. Stupid, hypocritical need to release the rage of foggy memories and a life dedicated to a world of death and murder and blood, all starting from the age of 13. Clint had pulled her away, hauled her away, from the destruction she’d tried to cause, that had taken over her conscience.

All the control built up in layers, almost wasted in a moment of weakness and fear; when thrown back into a past she’s always tried to forget but failed, it feels impossible to ignore it. She hates that she’d lost it, stony and emotionless, just like who they’d programmed her as. A machine, a cold, murdering machine. 

That’s changed now, but to return to that state for just a few seconds is enough to tighten what feels like barbed wire around her chest, a deep pain that lingers, has for as long as she can remember. 

‘It doesn’t have to be like this,’ Clint says, and he’s sitting beside her, and he’s trying, so hard that she wants to understand why he is. ‘You know it doesn’t.’

She snorts. ‘I know it doesn’t. I know what I did back there was against protocol, and if I’d gone any further—if I’d killed him—I wouldn’t be any different than before.’ She inches away from his hand as it moves closer to her, as if to comfort. ‘They created me. I don’t know who I am because of it.’ Her jaw clicks. ‘I don’t have a fucking clue who I am because I never got the choice to find out.’

Even as she tries to move away, his hand lays briefly on her arm, only for a second; it leaves a burning feeling behind because it’s so much more intimate than all the other times they’ve touched. ‘You have the choice now.’

~

It’s morning and the light streams in through the blinds. 

She lays on her side, not bothering to cover her naked chest, the sheets pooled around her waist. There’s sweat on the back of her neck and goosebumps over her skin, and the bed dips as Clint gets up. He sighs. ‘I’m not doing this anymore.’

If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it, nor allows herself to feel it, but it happens anyway. A cold weight settles in her chest, along with the tightness, and she refuses to look behind her where she knows Clint is dressing—pulling on the clothes she’d torn off him before, making sure his collar covers the purpling bites—and still stares at the wall when she says, ‘You knew what you were getting into. And it wasn’t love.’

~

He saves her.

Twice.

The first when there’s one too many, closing in, and an arrow shoots through the man’s chest just as he’d reached for her neck. So close that she feels the air rush from her lungs. 

A second where she’d had a flashback that night, of the Red Room, trapped by sleep and the nightmare. He’d bolted into her room, eased her awake and stayed there with her until the images no longer plagued her sight every time she closed her eyes. Even when she’d told him she was fine, he stayed. Even when he knew there were boundaries, that he had to sit in the chair in the corner of her room, and forced his own sleep away, he stayed. 

Saving might be too strong a word, but that’s what it felt like. As if had she not woken up, she’d be embedded in the vines of murder, of blood that coated her hands so much she couldn’t see skin. Because if he hadn’t been there, it wouldn’t feel so much like surviving. That’s all she’s doing—surviving. 

~

‘Do you remember what I said to you when I made a different call?’

‘Yes, but —’

‘What was it, Tasha? Tell me.’

It’s there, in the front of her mind, etched in the insides of her skull. ‘You’re not one of them.’

She looks away from him, from the heat of his gaze; it’s not lust, but a sincerity she’s seen so many times by him, yet for some reason, to discuss something as personal as this, it’s more real. She doesn’t know whether to feel uncomfortable or oddly touched. All in all, what she does know is it takes her back into the memories she’d locked up.

But she can’t think of anything else. She remembers that day. He’d found her, and she’d never seen an archer with a skill set as his. It wasn’t hard to spot him, of course not—but when he’d seen her, he stopped, his hands wavering and bow shaking, until he dropped his arm to his side. The slick of sweat across his brow and heavy breathing, nimble fingers and blue eyes so bright it distracted her for only a moment. She didn’t know what he must’ve been thinking when he saw her, a mere 18 year old, and doesn’t think she’ll ever find out, but it was enough for him to give her a second chance.

He’s the same now, back from a mission and the question was the first thing he’d said to her. Dirt and sweat smudges his skin, his suit torn in places like his thigh and stomach, but she stays on his face. On his eyes. ‘Why? Why did you say that?’

It’s two in the morning when he moves towards her, lifts his hand and rest it against her cheek. His thumb brushes against her skin. ‘Because it’s all I needed to say.’ He tugs a strand behind her ear. ‘You don’t need to be someone else, don’t need a clean slate. There’s red in your ledger, but I know you can wipe it out.’

And it’s not that it sounds like a reassurance, like he truly believes he could, but that either way he’ll be there to help her do it, that she’s not alone. She never has. It what makes her grab the back of his neck and pull him forward, and presses their lips together. It tastes like salty dirt and the regret of not doing this before, for starving herself of something she thought she couldn’t have, wasn’t allowed to become close with someone who cares for her, to care for him. 

‘I was wrong about before, but —’ 

He nods. ‘You don’t have to say it. You don’t need to say anything.’

Maybe she doesn’t need to say it out loud, or even quietly to herself when he’s not around, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t feel it. Maybe she’s not surviving, but only starting to live.


End file.
